Poems i like

Poems I Like Summer Music by May Sarton Summer is all a green air-- From the brilliant lawn, sopranos Through murmuring hedges Accompanied by some poplars; In fields of wheat, surprises; Through faraway pastures, flows To the horizon's blues In slow decrescendos. Summer is all a green sound-- Rippling in the foreground To that soft applause, The foam of Queen Anne's lace. Green, green in the ear Is all we care to hear-- Until a field suddenly flashes The singing with so sharp A yellow that it crashes Loud cymbals in the ear, Minor has turned to major As summer, lulling and so mild, Goes golden-buttercup-wild. quot;
Summer Musicquot;
by May Sarton, from Collected poems: 1930-1993. (c) W.W. Norton & Company, 1993. Reprinted with permission. Summer Trips by Jonathan Greene As a child sequestered in the back seat on a long journey, exiled in one's own world, a refuge. Deep sleep naps. Ice-cream stand oases after a long stretch of highway. In the front seat: the troubles of the world, treaties with foreign nations, domestic squabbles with aunts and uncles, at times at a whisper, classified information. A whole year of work brings us this week at the beach. The Devil's bargain parents made, a contract that renews every time, weary after the nine-to-fives, they unlock the front door. quot;
Summer Tripsquot;
by Jonathan Greene, from Distillations and Siphonings. (c) Broadstone Books, 2010. Reprinted with permission. Supper by April Lindner Turn the knob. The burner ticks then exhales flame in a swift up burst, its dim roar like the surf. Your kitchen burns white, lamplight on enamel, warm with the promise of bread and soup. Outside the night rains ink. To a stranger bracing his umbrella, think how your lit window must seem both warm and cold, a kiss withheld, lights strung above a distant patio. Think how your bare arm, glimpsed as you chop celery or grate a carrot glows like one link in a necklace. How the clink of silverware on porcelain carries to the street. As you unfold your napkin, book spread beside your plate, consider the ticking of rain against pavement, the stoplight red and steady as a flame. quot;
Supperquot;
by April Lindner, from Skin. (c) Texas Tech University Press, 2002. Reprinted with permission. The Fair by Hank Hudepohl Before the gates opened, before popcorn and cotton candy drifted down throats like sweet and salty summer evenings of childhood, before the townspeople confessed to the music and lights, the Ferris wheel baskets swung empty in a slow arc, one by one, offering color to the sky -- red, yellow, orange, blue. Just roving boys, what else could we do but follow the sandaled feet of girls out to the fair to buy them rides until our pockets turned up penniless, until we lost them in the dark the way sparrows will fly from you, until our last walk past the fun house mirrors stretched our bodies like gum, when we caught ourselves looking back at ourselves for the first time. quot;
The Fairquot;
by Hank Hudepohl, from The Journey of Hands. (c) Word Press, 2007. Reprinted with permission. Untitled by Bruce Dethlefsen what would I write if I had only four or five lines worth of ink or time left? how we children were put down around eight o-clock in the bedroom nearby with a crack of light from the open door so the grownups could smoke play cards and talk how I walked my sweetheart home from eighth grade on that orange afternoon carried her books from school and she said the word marriage how perfect the rainbow of the ball my triple during the all-star game with my father there how I heard the first cries of my baby little bundle wrapped in that thin pale yellow flannel blanket in my arms against my chest what would I write? would I drop an anonymous note to jesus? would I beg you to remember to keep this untitled green and blue world of ours? really what would I write if I had only four or five lines worth of ink or time left? quot;
Untitledquot;
by Bruce Dethlefsen, from Breather. (c) Fireweed Press, 2009. Reprinted with permission. Gray by Philip F. Deaver This was our pretty gray kitten, hence her name; who was born in our garage and stayed nearby her whole life. There were allergies; so she was, as they say, an outside cat. But she loved us. For years, she was at our window. Sometimes, a paw on the screen as if to want in, as if to be with us the best she could. She would be on the deck, at the sliding door. She would be on the small sill of the window in the bathroom. She would be at the kitchen window above the sink. We'd go to the living room; anticipating that she'd be there, too, hop up, look in. She'd be on the roof, she'd be in a nearby tree. She'd be listening through the wall to our family life. She knew where we were, and she knew where we were going and would meet us there. Little spark of consciousness, calm kitty eyes staring through the window. After the family broke, and when the house was about to sell, I walked around it for a last look. Under the eaves, on the ground, there was a path worn in the dirt, tight against the foundation -- small padded feet, year after year, window to window. When we moved, we left her to be fed by the people next door. Months after we were gone, they found her in the bushes and buried her by the fence. So many years after, I can't get her out of my mind. quot;
Grayquot;
by Philip F. Deaver, from How Men Pray. (c) Anhinga Press, 2005. Reprinted with permission. A Green Cornfield by Christina Rossetti The earth was green, the sky was blue: I saw and heard one sunny morn A skylark hang between the two, A singing speck above the corn; A stage below, in gay accord, White butterflies danced on the wing, And still the singing skylark soared, And silent sank and soared to sing. The cornfield stretched a tender green To right and left beside my walks; I knew he had a nest unseen Somewhere among the million stalks. And as I paused to hear his song While swift the sunny moments slid, Perhaps his mate sat listening long, And listened longer than I did. Dew by Robert Morgan It's something of a mystery, this minute rain downloading from the sky so slowly and invisibly you don't know when it came except at dusk the grass is suddenly wet, a visitation from the air, precipitant from spirit world of whitest incarnation or reverse transfiguration, herald of river, swamp and ocean breath sent heavenward, released to earth again to water weed and stone, and shatter rainbows in the sun, the purest liquid that exists, too fine to slake our human thirst. quot;
Dewquot;
by Robert Morgan, from Terroir. (c) Penguin Poets, 2011. Reprinted with permission. Riding the Red Line by Eric Nixon On the subway On a hot summer night Riding the Red Line Outbound to Alewife So is everyone else Standing in the packed car Staring blankly at the Reflections in the window Stealing looks every so often At the pretty mid-20-something Sitting on the seat near me Noticing that she is Glancing sideways At the paper the person Next to her is reading Well not so much reading Since he's got his eyes Looking to the side at Someone else behind me Everyone is pretending To look somewhere neutral Everyone is experiencing Ulterior motives checking out Everyone else around them Trying to be all sneaky about it With each stop The people change The dynamics change Keeps the subway car Fresh and interesting Just as long as she doesn't leave I'll be happy standing here Packed among strangers With wandering eyes And stealing glances Alongside them On this hot, hot night quot;
Riding the Red Linequot;
by Eric Nixon, from Anything But Dreams. (c) iUniverse, Inc, 2004. Reprinted with permission. Running on the Shore by May Swenson The sun is hot, the ocean cool. The waves throw down their snowy heads. I run under their hiss and boom, mine their wild breath. Running the ledge where pipers prod their awls into sand-crab holes, my barefoot tracks their little prints cross on wet slate. Circles of romping water swipe and drag away our evidence. Running and gone, running and gone, the casts of our feet. My twin, my sprinting shadow on yellow shag, wand of summer over my head, it seems that we could run forever while the strong waves crash. But sun takes its belly under. Flashing above magnetic peaks of the ocean's purple heave, the gannet climbs, and turning, turns to a black sword that drops, hilt-down, to the deep. quot;
Running on the Shorequot;
by May Swenson, from Nature: Poems Old & New. (c) Mariner Books, 2000. Reprinted with permission. At Summer's End by John Engels Early August, and the young butternut is already dropping its leaves, the nuts thud and ring on the tin roof, the squirrels are everywhere. Such richness! It means something to them that this tree should seem so eager to finish its business. The voice softens, and word becomes air the moment it is spoken. You finger the limp leaves. Precisely to the degree that you have loved something: a house, a woman, a bird, this tree, anything at all, you are punished by time. Like the tree, I take myself by surprise. quot;
At Summer's Endquot;
by John Engels, from Sinking Creek. (c) The Lyons Press, 1998. Reprinted with permission. The Ordinary Weather of Summer by Linda Pastan In the ordinary weather of summer with storms rumbling from west to east like so many freight trains hauling their cargo of heat and rain, the dogs sprawl on the back steps, panting, insects assemble at every window, and we quarrel again, bombarding each other with small grievances, our tempers flashing on and off in bursts of heat lightning. In the cooler air of morning, we drink our coffee amicably enough and walk down to the sea which seems to tremble with meaning and into which we plunge again and again. The days continue hot. At dusk the shadows are as blue as the lips of the children stained with berries or with the chill of too much swimming. So we move another summer closer to our last summer together-- a time as real and implacable as the sea out of which we come walking on wobbly legs as if for the first time, drying ourselves with rough towels, shaking the water out of our blinded eyes. quot;
The Ordinary Weather of Summerquot;
by Linda Pastan, from Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998. (c) W.W. Norton & Company, 1998. Reprinted with permission. Moths by Jennifer O'Grady Adrift in the liberating, late light of August, delicate, frivolous, they make their way to my front porch and flutter near the glassed-in bulb, translucent as a thought suddenly wondered aloud, illumining the air that's thick with honeysuckle and dusk. You and I are doing our best at conversation, keeping it light, steering clear of what we'd like to say. You leave, and the night becomes cluttered with moths, some tattered, their dumbly curious filaments startling against my cheek. How quickly, instinctively, I brush them away. Dazed, they cling to the outer darkness like pale reminders of ourselves. Others seem to want so desperately to get inside. Months later, I'll find the woolens, snug in their resting places, full of missing pieces. quot;
Mothsquot;
by Jennifer O'Grady, from White. (c) Mid-list Press, 1999. Reprinted with permission. The Dragonfly by Louise Bogan You are made of almost nothing But of enough To be great eyes And diaphanous double vans; To be ceaseless movement, Unending hunger, Grappling love. Link between water and air, Earth repels you. Light touches you only to shift into iridescence Upon your body and wings. Twice-born, predator, You split into the heat. Swift beyond calculation or capture You dart into the shadow Which consumes you. You rocket into the day. But at last, when the wind flattens the grasses, For you, the design and purpose stop. And you fall With the other husks of summer. quot;
The Dragonflyquot;
by Louise Bogan, from The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968. (c) Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1995. Reprinted with permission. Evening Star by Charles Goodrich Fork down hay for the white-face steers. Sit in the hay mow door watching the horses graze, chewing myself a dry clover sprig. Long day over. No evening plans. Dust motes drift on the ambering light. Pigeons flap and coo in the rafters. First star now low in the east. Sweat cools and crusts on my face, muscles lean back on their bones and all thoughts heal down to a low whistling. quot;
Evening Starquot;
by Charles Goodrich, from Insects of South Corvallis. (c) Cloudbank Books, 2003. Reprinted with permission. Prayer for the Small Engine Repairman by Charles W. Pratt Our Sundays are given voice By the small engine repairman, Whose fingers, stubby and black, Know our mowers and tractors, Chainsaws, rototillers, Each plug, gasket and valve And all the vital fluids. Thanks to him our lawns Are even, our gardens vibrant, Our maples pruned for swings, The underbrush whacked away. quot;
What's broke can always be fixed If I can find the parts,quot;
 He says as he loosens a nut, Exposes the carburetor, Tinkers and tunes until To the slightest pull on the cord The engine at once concurs. Let him come into our homes, Let him discipline our children, Console and counsel our mates, Adjust the gap of our passions, The mix of our humors: lay hands On the small engine of our days. In Answer to Amy's Question What's a Pickerel by Stanley Plumly Pickerel have infinite, small bones, and skins of glass and black ground glass, and though small for pike are no less wall-eyed and their eyes like bone. Are fierce for their size, and when they flare at the surface resemble drowning birds, the wing-slick panic of birds, but in those seconds out of water on the line, when their color changes and they choose for life, will try to cut you and take part of your hand back with them. And yet they open like hands, the sweet white meat more delicate in oil, to be eaten off the fire when the sun is level with the lake, the wind calm, the air ice-blue, blue-black, and flecked with rain. quot;
In Answer to Amy's Question What's a Pickerelquot;
by Stanley Plumly, from The Marriage in the Trees. (c) The Ecco Press, 1997. Reprinted with permission.

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